


Pocillo

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Coffee Shops, First Meetings, Gift Fic, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is the best/worst barista because he's really talented but he's also an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For benedictcumberbtch on tumblr: "In which Sherlock is a barista that never takes orders but deduces people’s preferences. John, scarred by the war, walks into the shop. Sherlock dismisses John at first sight because he is merely a ‘black coffee, no sugar’ person. But as John walks out of the shop he sees the limp and suddenly he is intrigued."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything at all! Clearly.
> 
> Apologies to any baristas out there whom I might offend with technical inaccuracies. I am emphatically not a coffee expert, and I definitely have never been on that side of the counter. While I did spend several days researching, the Internet is no substitute for legitimate experience; although now I do have a much greater appreciation for those soldiers of caffeine who put up with some of the worst of humanity. Salutations to you, friends.
> 
> Now with art by the fabulous Viera, from viera-draws-stuff.tumblr.com! You should all go check her work out, it's amaaaazing~

Sherlock opens the shop as often as he can manage. Sleep is dull; it’s more than a fair trade-off for the quiet moments alone, the opportunity to make sure the chores are done right. Even if he has to pay attention to the baking - boring, he’d happily leave that to Molly, the food only matters as far as it’s an accent to the coffee - it’s well worth it, to personally ensure everything is up to his standards before the morning rush starts.

When he checks over the machines, every centimetre of the Hydra and the AeroPress and the Mazzers inspected for grime and muck, he either hums in pleasure or starts murmuring curses. If he closed and cleaned the previous night, a hum is almost guaranteed unless another night burglar has crept in and left obvious prints on the metal. A repeat of _that_ incident is unlikely at best, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. The first espresso after the throwaway - just to check that the machine’s coated and calibrated properly - rolls creamy but bitingly bitter down his throat, where it will linger for a long while until his swallowing fades the full mouthfeel away.

When he sets up the blend display, he smooths the pads of his fingers just a touch longer than necessary over the plump bags. Pride spills warmly down his arms and pools in his chest - all their coffee is roasted on-site at their very nearby sister restaurant, and it in combination with his skill has earned the praise of most all the reviews they get.

 Even his music is chosen carefully: multiple mixes that he alternates in a pattern that makes little sense to anyone else, but involves variables of his last customers’ behaviour, the competency of whoever cleaned - anyway, his mixes are all made as particularly as he crafts his drinks. And essentially wordless all. Irritating to filter out lyrics while watching clients: easy, obviously, but still an unnecessary annoyance that he’s not about to encourage. Bad enough Molly’s even allowed to bring her silly crooning bands into the shop; he’s been tempted sorely more than once to cut the noise off and just leave the bar silent, but that wouldn’t do. All it would accomplish is getting his own music privilege revoked for a while.

So at 7:00 when the pastries are done and appealingly arranged in the display case, and he’s triple-checked each of his machines, it is with almost as much contentment as he ever attains that he steps out from behind the counter. With his long strides it takes seconds to cross the small space - it’s a coffee bar, an experience, not a Wi-Fi lounge for people to wait and take up room as they nurse a single cooling, boring drink for hours - and set out their metallic brushed sign on the pavement.

 

**_Laboratory Coffee Company_ **

****

Not long after, the first wave of customers pours in- the working people craving their fuel for the daily grindstone. This particular rush is too easy: at this time of day no one’s looking for a new experience or deviating from their usual. They just want caffeine, delivered in a form they know they like. Half of them are regulars, too, and Sherlock can get their orders started before they’re fewer than two people from the counter. The new faces provide a watered-down sort of variety; it’s always the same basic range of choices that barely includes a third of what the Laboratory’s menu offers.

It always seems to impress people that he doesn’t need to speak to most customers - or as he prefers to think of them, clients. But people’s taste in coffee is as obvious to him in a glance as everything else about their personal lives; for example, that woman there.

( _Aubergine suit. That alone says she’s well-established in her workplace, as do the designer label and the high-end jewellery - well off, then, used to indulgence. Sweet tooth, too; there’s powdered sugar on the inside of her sleeve but she’s eying the pastry display hungrily anyway. So, something sweet and rich_ )

“Cappuccino,” he says when she steps up to the counter, not giving her a chance to speak first. Always best to confirm with the new ones, even though his deductions are always on the mark - it’d be an unacceptable blotch on his record to have to throw a drink out because he missed a minor detail. 

She looks startled for a moment. “Yes, but-” Annoying. He turns away and starts it; when he has the cup ready to hand to her, she gives him a coy smile. Oh, dull - she’s smart enough to realise he figured it out through observation, but stupid enough to think it’s a sign of interest in her. As if he could possibly be bothered with such entanglements when _this_ is so much more fulfilling than boring, idiotic people ever could be. 

Americano there, then an espresso with a rosette delicately poured over it for a young man looking harried and exhausted - so easy, but it never fails to impress. It feels like a personal touch to these morons. And so it goes, pace not slowing for a good hour or so. By that point the tide has ebbed: every one of the morning people is now settled or nearly settled to their toil for the day, perhaps still sipping at whatever Sherlock has made for them. Perhaps it sits forgotten on their desk, close at hand but swept away by distractions. Still, people come back, and that’s all the proof Sherlock needs that his coffee is perfectly executed.

It’s not until well after ten, when the rush has long eased to a trickle, that Mrs Hudson shows up - his landlady, and his favourite customer. Sherlock waves away a man seated at the bar who’s touched his drink no more than once in the last ten minutes to make room for her and starts preparing her customary drink: a latte macchiato, featuring a graceful swan worked into the foam.

“Oh, Sherlock, these are always so well done,” she says warmly, face aglow with affection. “Drinking it feels like blasphemy.”

Sherlock shrugs dismissively. “Superficial compared to the coffee,” he replies. “Not to drink it is a crime. And humiliating for me, as well.” It’s a conversation they’ve had a thousand times, but he does relish seeing the laugh lines deepen on her face with her answering smile. It’s a small attempt to make up for the mirthless years of her marriage. Familiar anger at the memory wells like poison: push it down, not the time to think on her husband’s many crimes. 

Instead he amuses her with his deductions of the clients as they pass through the queue and the bar. Little ones only, ‘he has a dog’ and ‘she’s planning a romantic dinner for her partner tonight’ - never the indiscretions, though, never the darker things that are actually momentarily interesting. The bigger secrets only upset her to hear. Indecent of him, she says. Boring. She titters softly into her macchiato as she tries and fails to give him a disapproving look at his easy penetration of ordinary people’s privacy. It’s not private, he thinks, if it’s to be read so plainly in cuff and collar. 

“…very interesting barista,” he hears as a puff of air from the opened door brushes his face, and he looks up. “Some days he’ll slip you an experimental drink just to test your reaction, but it’s not malicious; he swallows as many foul concoctions himself.” 

Well. Always nice to hear some praise, even indirect and laced with warning as this bit is. Unfairly so, too; he hasn’t experimented on customers in weeks. His eyes rake quickly over the regular (Mickey? No, Mike) and then less rapidly over Mike’s companion.

( _Short; blond; nondescript, really, aside from the cane in his hand. Injured, then. And very spartan in his habits if the precise shaving and drab clothing are any indication, which for him they are. This is a man who favours simplicity and allows himself few, if any luxuries, particularly in public; that does make for a boring drink_ )

“Not much food,” the stranger observes. Sherlock glares at him - of course the food is sparse, it’s a coffee bar for God’s sake! If he wants a meal he can go to Mycroft’s restaurant not fifteen minutes away - no doubt the Foxcroft and Silver’s overly generous portions would more than satisfy his belly, but Sherlock’s Laboratory is not the place for gluttony.

“Black, no sugar. Correct?” he says tersely rather than spitting out the razor words he’d like to do - as he might have done early on, before half-taming himself so as not to frighten off customers. The man looks startled, blinks at him bewilderedly for a few seconds.

“Er, yes, how did you…?” Not that again! Sherlock ignores him and whirls to the machines, hands jerkier than usual in his irritation with this stranger who’s managed to push two of his buttons with two sentences. “Because that’s rather brilliant."

Brilliant. Hm. Not a touch of sarcasm or doubt or threat - well, that last would be absurd for merely deducing a coffee preference, but it’s happened. Not flirtation, either: simple admiration. Amazement, even. Sherlock’s motions smooth out slightly. He shouldn’t be so easily soothed with praise, but it is genuine: a novelty, and one that induces a warming sensation somewhere in his chest.

“Obvious enough,” he says, but doesn’t explain, enjoying too much the spark of marvel in the stranger’s blue-brown eyes to spoil it with the bit that always ignites fury. He slips the cardboard coffee sleeve around the cup and hands it over before adding the usual amount of sugar to Mike’s drink and passing it on as well. A murmured thanks goes unanswered. After all, what’s the point of gratitude for a paid service? 

There’s a flash of something - an ephemeral realisation he doesn’t quite grab hold of before it slips away - as he catches sight of the stranger’s wrist, but when the two turn to leave it comes back, the glints of gold in the shorn blond hair serving to illuminate it again. And all the pieces fall into place as he notes that, hexagons of observations merging into a honeycomb full of sweet data in his head and oh, that is marvelous, it’s beautiful - 

( _Spartan habits and tanned hands below the wrist, shorn hair and what he now sees is a psychosomatic limp because it was forgotten as he stood still?_ )

Obvious, Sherlock exults silently, glorying in the thrilling rush of realisation, _obvious_. But he didn’t see it at first, distracted by irritation and then by surprise. Always sentiment, the grit in the lens, slows down his machinery. Ought to be over that by this point. He has it now, though. Military man. Army…what?

( _Soldier? No, not necessarily. Other possibilities? Mike is a doctor, and the fact they’re immediately getting coffee together when the stranger’s clearly newly invalided home suggests prior knowledge. Student days, given relative age. Army doctor, maybe, trained together with Mike - a working hypothesis, can’t confirm now, but it looks more probable with the available data than soldier_ ) 

The necessary questions that follow - Doctor? Afghanistan or Iraq? - burn on his tongue like a sacrament, coals of holy fire searing his lips, but he stifles the need to know; Mike and this fascinating stranger, this possible-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp despite the soundness of his body are already disappearing down the street, and he cannot leave his station. Can’t risk the work, his anchor, for a puzzle evanescent in nature, no matter the temptation. 

Perhaps he’ll come back, Sherlock thinks wildly; perhaps he was impressed enough with the coffee - no, not the coffee, with Sherlock himself, with the brilliance he noted, to return and give him another glimpse of the data he offers. To complete his honeycomb. 

Mrs Hudson, still at the bar - he should send her away, but he can make an exception for her - gives him a knowing look. “Handsome young man, isn’t he?” she asks, deceptively guileless. “You barely even talked to him, though, Sherlock. Wouldn’t call that very inviting.”

“He did call me brilliant,” Sherlock says absently, distracted, then snaps back to the real world. His brows furrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I know that expression well enough, young man,” she says and chuckles. “It’s about time you found someone for that second bedroom - although I’m not sure you’ll be needing both of them, you’re not really one to take things slowly.”

"Mrs Hudson, don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snorts. He refuses to be scandalised by such nonsense. Love. Pah. Clinical interest, that’s all this is: he’ll pull apart the mystery of this man’s leg and then be done with him. He’s not subject to that sort of sentimental nonsense, particularly not at first sight like one of Molly’s ludicrous songs. “It’s hardly love. But…” Her words do suggest a strategy for going about this, as he’ll need to go deeper than usual. Fingers twitch at his sides: he’s eager to get started. “He certainly is interesting, I’ll give you that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a dick and Americans are stupid. But you knew that already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst at actually updating/writing things on time, but if you could see the handwriting I have to transcribe from, you wouldn't blame me for procrastinating. It may look pretty on the page, but cursive isn't reader-friendly... 
> 
> Knowledge of barista-land is still limited to Internet research. If any readers with first hand knowledge of the world behind the counter would like to correct a thing, then I welcome it! Learning=good in Raccoon's book.

Every time the door swings open the next morning, Sherlock glances up before he even has a moment to think about it; he’d be disgusted with how desperate he is to see (his) the stranger come back, if his curiosity weren’t so overwhelming it blotted the rational response out. Dangerous: it’s important to always keep control. He’ll have to tamp it down somehow.

That can wait, though; at the moment he’s trying to keep himself from lashing out at the idiot in front of him who’s trying to present him with a Starbucks card to pay for his mocha.

“I just topped this up,” he insists. “It should be good.” American accent, with the long ‘o’s of a New Yorker. Typical - don’t they understand not every coffee shop out there is a bloody Starbucks? Is it so hard to read the sign outside, or for God’s sake, look at the Laboratory’s logo on the wall? How does one confuse a minimalist mug adorned with the chemical symbol for caffeine with a two-tailed mermaid outlined in elaborate detail?

“It would be perfect, if this were Starbucks,” he drawls with forced patience. “However, it’s not. That will be £3.2 - actual money, if you please, _sir_.”

“Jackass,” the American says under his breath as he fumbles around with his wallet, replacing the card. “Forget it.” It’s comical-sounding with the dropped ‘r’. He turns and makes his way out onto the street. Sherlock sighs and drums his fingers on the counter next to the drink in its to-go cup: wasted product. He hasn’t done that in quite some time.

Fortunately Molly’s about to take her break from working in the back, making up the lunchtime sandwiches and baking more pastry to refill the case. Sherlock excuses himself for a moment and steps into the kitchen.

“Moron left in a huff,” he says, holding out the cup. “And I don’t want it.”

“Oh! Er, thank you, Sherlock.” Molly blushes as she takes it, and Sherlock resists the temptation to roll his eyes - she always reads far too much into the things he does to stay on her good side. After all, she is in charge of taking deliveries of coffee, and sometimes he’s in the mood to take a roast home to his own setup and experiment with it; it’s useful to maintain her benevolence. Nothing more to it, but she thinks it means something.

Without another word to her he returns to his place at the counter, pasting on an apologetic smile for the woman waiting for him ( _vibrantly-dyed hair, ink smudges on her fingers and a nearly fresh spatter of blue paint on her shirt. In the bag is the distinctive impression of a spiral-bound book, likely a sketchbook - some sort of artist. Owns one - two dogs, a big playful golden and a smaller white creature. Mobile is new, with plenty of the bells and whistles - cash flow therefore isn_ _’t a problem, so she’s well-situated already - a full-fledged career artist - and she likes novelty_ ). She grins back and waves a hand airily in dismissal.

“No worries,” she says. “What a prick, right?” Her glossy lips pop around the ‘p’. Sherlock murmurs his agreement; it’s always so refreshing - cleansing, almost - to find reasonable clients after dealing with the morons, despite rationality tending to be the norm. “I’d -”

Sherlock holds up a hand to cut her off as he scrutinises her more carefully, reading the details.

( _End of the week, likely to splurge, particularly in the middle of a project. Fond of trends and new technology, though a bit of a purist when it comes to certain things - the paint proves it; so she_ _’ll probably want the distinctive coffee flavour. Artist, though, busy, creative woman, so the caffeine content is just as important_ )

“A latte, done in the Aeropress,” he declares after a moment, and doesn’t bother to restrain the self-satisfied smile that crosses his face with her surprised nod. This one was a shakier step of logic than Sherlock likes his deductions to be; but he was right, and it’s almost more intoxicating for the chance taken.

He turns away to start setting up the Aeropress to brew. It’s an interesting machine, though Sherlock’s not quite convinced it was a worthwhile investment: there’s a distinct problem with waste of beans and the taste isn’t nearly the ‘best cup you’ve ever had’ as advertised. He likes the vague chemistry-set aesthetic of it, though, carefully measuring the water temperature before pouring it and pressing down the plunger; it’s very fitting for the spirit of the Lab. And it’s fast - always a bonus, though slight compared to the importance of flavour.

Sherlock gives it twenty-eight seconds of pressure and a dash of hot milk, then secures the lid and hands it over. Her eyes light up at her first tentative sip, and she slips a generous tip into the jar - not hard to tell how she feels about it, then.

“Really are good at that, aren’t you,” someone says, voice on just the far side of familiar - he hasn’t heard it often enough to consider it thus, but he never forgets a voice and this one rings several bells. He looks up even as he’s rinsing the Aeropress out to meet the possible-doctor’s blue-brown eyes and silently exults that there are no other clients in the store to interfere with having a proper look into this man’s character.

“It’s not my fault people telegraph everything about themselves,” Sherlock answers, quirking an eyebrow. “Including you.” He can feel his heart rate pick up; he hasn’t had a chance to properly flaunt in ages. Even with Mrs Hudson he has to hold himself back.

The possible-doctor somehow sighs resignedly and manages a curious expression simultaneously. “All right, go on,” he says. “How did you know my order yesterday?”

“Didn’t know, I saw,” Sherlock replies flippantly before setting the pieces of the Aeropress down and leaning casually on the counter. “You’re extremely careful about your shaving and your clothing is bland, unflattering, inexpensive; severe with yourself, then. You wouldn’t want luxuries like milk or sugar, particularly not out in public.” He pauses for breath before diving into the riskier part of the deduction. “There’s more than just your coffee preference in there, though; it’s not a direct link, but that level of self-discipline is suggestive at least of your being an army man. Potentially a doctor given your preexisting acquaintance with Mike. Military service looks still more likely when I take into account your hairstyle and your stance; not to mention the tanning of your hands - doesn’t go above the wrists, so you weren’t sunbathing. The cane and the limp tell me you were injured - so pray tell, am I right about the doctor part, and where was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” the stranger says after a moment of blinking at Sherlock, mouth slightly agape. “And yes. Doctor.” He extends his left hand and Sherlock shakes it, noting a brief tremor in the muscles. Interesting. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says quickly. John Watson grins slightly.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, gesturing towards Sherlock’s chest. “You’ve got a name tag - I can’t do all that, tell you your life story with a glance, but I’m not completely blind.” Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s laughing until the chuckle escapes his lips. “Extraordinary,” John Watson adds. “That was amazing. You do that to everyone?”

“It’s more interesting than standing here listening to idiots stammer out what they want all day,” Sherlock explains. “More of a challenge. You’ll have the same as yesterday?” Even as he asks he’s already pouring coffee into a mug and passing it over the counter, black as night with its rich aroma steaming up into the air.

“Guess you know the answer to that one, Mr Holmes,” John Watson says bemusedly, wrapping his hands around the cup and inhaling deeply before taking a mouthful.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Sherlock, please.”

And John Watson smiles again.

* * *

 

It becomes routine - which is peculiar: routine should be boring, monotony in the extreme; the morning rush at least features new faces, but John is by no means new after a few days - for John to enter the Lab and settle himself at the bar, while Sherlock tells him all about the trip he took to get there based on what he sees. Red clay versus loam, plant residue in the treads of his shoes and puddle splashes on his clothes, once the overpowering scent of a particularly aromatic perfume store. John even starts varying his routes after a while, which both delights Sherlock and worries him: some of them involve longer walks, which means the limp must be weakening somewhat. It would be - _disappointing_ \- to have it disappear before Sherlock can unravel it.

 When the queue is too busy he has to abbreviate his deductions, lest he neglect the clients - but John will sit there watching him and occasionally voicing a “Marvelous!” or a “Brilliant!” that makes Sherlock’s train of thought stutter on its rails. Which is absurd, of course: by now he should be immune to that. Sincerity, logically, should be as easy to get used to as insincerity, and God knows he’s jaded enough to that.

Always the same order, though - normally regulars who never change their order don’t bother him, but John’s is, again, an oddity. Those regulars always have some complexity to their drinks: black coffee sans sugar bores Sherlock almost to tears. It feels incomplete, somehow, unfinished. The drip coffee may be good, but it’s the crafted drinks that let Sherlock show off most, and (to be perfectly honest) he enjoys showing off for John far too much. Plain coffee is too easy. Besides, he has no doubt that once he reintroduces the army doctor to indulgence, it will stick; asperity can’t possibly be his actual preference.

It’s this reasoning that leads Sherlock one rather lazy Sunday to distract John, speaking faster and faster about the way he originally deduced Mike Stamford (originally had a practise of his own, after uni, but a beloved aunt or cousin - he couldn’t make out which - passed from illness and he went into teaching at Bart’s) until John is forced to focus all his attention on Sherlock just to make out what he’s saying. Satisfied that he’s sufficiently diverted not to notice, Sherlock slips a shot of espresso into the coffee he has just poured John. He then falls silent and passes the mug over.

“Ta,” John says, and lifts it to his lips; the moment it hits his tongue, though, he splutters and coughs and drags the back of his hand over his mouth before remembering his manners. “Jesus Christ, what is that?”

“Shot in the Dark,” Sherlock says, one eyebrow quirking up. “A good one, too. I thought you might like a change from routine.”

John lets out a weak laugh and pushes the mug back over the counter towards him. “Well. I appreciate the thought, but I’m not a fan, sorry.”

Which isn’t an injunction to just make what he usually takes, Sherlock notes. It’s practically an invitation to keep trying. Most customers who he’s taken that liberty with aren’t nearly so cheerful about the surprise - the enigma that is John mounts even higher and Sherlock’s fingers itch to - to what, he wonders abruptly. The puzzle of John Watson isn’t one that can be solved with touch, not like grind texture or a jammed machine, so why is he struck by the desire to grab him and lay him out and study him? The mind itself is not a visible thing. Nonsensical desire. He pushes it away and rinses out John’s mug, then gives the doctor a sidelong look and mixes something else that isn’t par for the course: a simple cappucino, which isn’t far off from John’s standard order but will at least help reintroduce him to milk and espresso.

“God, you’re set on this,” John says with a good-natured sigh as Sherlock passes it over; now he’s looking for the difference, instead of just accepting what Sherlock gives him.

“Variety is the spice of life,” Sherlock says, blandly. “Besides, there’s no reason to keep denying yourself.”

“You’re ridiculous. Maybe I just like plain coffee.” Nevertheless, he takes a sip, swishing it over his tongue a minute before he nods - an abrupt, almost surprised jerk of his head. “Oh, well, that’s - good, yeah.”

“I’m right, then,” Sherlock says triumphantly. “It’s not just a matter of taste.” Just like the limp isn’t a matter of injury - it’s locked just like the coffee into John Watson’s fascinating brain, a pattern of behaviour set in place by constant reinforcement - _unnecessary_ reinforcement that could theoretically be undone if someone just took a little time and effort to counter it.

And just like that the idea blooms in Sherlock’s brain; all right, perhaps Mrs Hudson planted the seeds of it already, but her reasoning was patently flawed and more than slightly ridiculous. Sherlock is far more sensible. This is not a sappy, stupid declaration of affections that cannot possibly have bloomed in the few days John has been visiting the Laboratory anyway, but a problem-solving strategy. He needs better access to John if he’s to unlock him properly, more frequent access and more thorough observation - more data, data, data. Sherlock cannot make bricks without clay.

The chain of logic takes less than thirty seconds to build. John does not notice his lapse in attention, consumed as he is in consuming his cappucino.

“You should move in with me,” Sherlock announces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading ~ Don't forget, reviews are food for hungry Raccoons whose habitats are being destroyed...

**Author's Note:**

> (Art by Viera @ viera-draws-stuff.tumblr.com) 
> 
> Many thanks to benedictcumberbtch for letting me take this idea on; apologies the Mystrade wasn't as obvious as I'd expected. I ended up doing a lot of research on this particular project, and actually based the two establishments written here on real shops I found on londoncoffeeguide.com. Sherlock's shop, the Laboratory, is based on Workshop Coffee Company in Marylebone (http://www.workshopcoffee.com/stores/marylebone) because of the blurb there ("At this smaller outpost of Workshop Coffee Co. (formerly named Sensory Lab), coffee is a science and its baristas are laureates of the highest order. This is coffee at its best, brewed with clinical precision and minute attention to detail"); Mycroft and Lestrade's restaurant, Foxcroft and Silver, was inspired by Foxcroft and Ginger. I also went so far as to make a Google Maps of how far 221B, the Lab, and F&S would be from each other at these real addresses. -facepalm- Thank god for Scrivener, is all I can say.
> 
> Deepest gratitude for beta services by dearest batty619~  
> And so much gratitude and appreciation to Viera for the artwork; seriously, it's amazing and I'm blown away by it every time I look at it. 
> 
> Done rambling now. Laterz!


End file.
